Chapter Ten

In this engaging memoir, Jackie turns thirteen. Her life is a mix of light and dark but her love of animals provides the brightness in this chapter.

Hovering Above Myself

A Memoir

by Jacqueline D’Acre

Chapter Ten

I look awful. Got a glimpse of myself in the vanity mirror: I am ugly. I have come full circle. After being ugly as a prepubescent and pubescent girl, I’m now ugly as an old lady. I marvel that people just talk to me not in the least bothered because they are talking to an ugly person. I imagined they would shun me. Nevertheless, I don’t feel like transforming myself. After years of obsessive fussing, I just don’t feel like wearing mascara.

            When I find myself telling a story in which a man is attracted to me, I know that looking as I do now, it’s impossible to believe that I was ever the least bit attractive. So I ask them to step around the corner and look on the wall. There is a black and white poster-size picture of me there. My hair is long and blonde and falls in tendrils along the sides of my face. My eyelashes are thick and black. The most common comment to this picture is: “Were you a model?” “Nope,” I reply. “That’s my author photo for the back of my first published novel, Between Extremities.”

            Today is Christmas. Very quiet here in my apartment. I was fighting a touch of depression when Vickie showed up, full of cheer. I am hoping for a call from my son Tripp, already heard from sister Jennifer via phone, and a brief text from Jane. Vickie brought what may be my only gift. I saw something brown in a large colourful bag. I whipped it out of the bag. A mat for the hallway for people to wipe their feet! Perfect! Vickie and I howled with delighted laughter.

Everyone shows up in big winter boots, soles imbedded with sand and grit. They stop by the side of my bed to interact with me, depositing grit. I swing out of bed a while later, and my feet land on nails. At least that’s how it feels. Then the grit sticks and gets transferred to my bed where it scratches my bare legs. It makes me mad. But I used to have a little green carpet out in the hall just for that purpose: To wipe feet. It had mysteriously disappeared. I’m sure it’s lost somewhere in my crowded closet. I’m not up to looking for it. But Vickie has solved the problem with her brilliant gift.

Then it was February, my birthday month. I would become a teenager! Thirteen. I woke up as usual on my birthday, this year—1956, a Saturday. I hadn’t heard anything, but maybe the surprise party planning contingent had gotten sly. I went through the day in tense anticipation. Anytime, people would leap out and shout: “Surprise!” They were being especially nonchalant about it—I saw no preparations taking place in the kitchen. Was anyone baking a cake? Had it already been done and hidden?

I resisted actually asking someone about it.

Mother put platters of food on the table for dinner, as usual. I inspected the fare and saw nothing unusual, just an ordinary pork chop, applesauce, mashed potatoes, carrots, peas and cabbage salad dinner. The surprise must be coming for dessert.

Silent, I sat down with everyone. People handed me dishes of food, but I passed them on to the next person. I had no appetite. In fact, I felt a little nauseated. I stared down at my plate and listened to the inane conversation that buzzed all round me. It was getting pretty late. If they were going to do something they better do it quickly, or dinner would be over and…? What? Nothing? Nothing for my birthday? Mother began handing out dessert: Not birthday cake, but apple pie! Tears exploded in my eyes. I stood, shoving my chair back hard so it fell onto the floor.

“How could you?” I sobbed. “It’s my thirteenth birthday and you forgot! How could you?”

Mother was apologetic. The next day she made me a birthday cake, but it just wasn’t the same.

The house in the country was finished sufficiently to move into. It was the night before the big move. Father wanted to take me and go to the farm (we now called the two and a half acres in the country ‘the farm,’) spend the night and get ready for the movers the next day. We were all gathered in the kitchen when Father made an announcement. “Jackie. Come with me. I need your help.”

Spend a night alone with my father? I’d rather be dead.
I was so scared I couldn’t speak.

            “Jackie,” he said, “you coming?”

            “No,” I said.

            “What?” yelled Mother. “What do you mean ‘no?’ Your father wants you there and you will be there!” And she came over to me and began to slap me. The first slap knocked me up against the kitchen door. The next slaps caused me to slide down the door until I was sitting on the floor. I caught a glimpse of Father in the midst of this slap melee: His arms were crossed and he looked on in satisfaction. I knew I was in for a very bad time.

            We got to the farm in short order. Jeffrey and Jennifer came with us. Maybe their presence would slow him down. Our beds were already moved in so we scampered upstairs and bedded down for the night. I didn’t notice at first but after I was in the bed for a while I wondered where Lisa was: She should be in bed with me. I waited for a while, just listening. I heard nothing. Finally, I called.

“Lisa. Lisa. Come here girl.” Silence. I waited. “Lisa! C’mere girl!”

            Then: Father’s voice. “You better come downstairs, Jackie, Lisa is sick. She needs you down here.”

What a dirty rotten trick! I was sure Lisa was not sick. But I did not want to go

downstairs. “She’s alright. Send her up.”

            “Nope. You come down.”

            I waited for a long while. If I went downstairs, he would get me. I didn’t think he would actually hurt Lisa. The silence was broken by the sound of his heavy footsteps, coming up the stairs. I stretched flat out on my back, pulled the covers up to my chin, and breathing shallowly, waited. I listened to his heavy breathing. His footsteps. He arrived upstairs. I think the girls were asleep. I hoped so. At any rate their presence was not stopping him. He walked over to my bed. My eyes were shut tight. I was scared to breathe. Suddenly, he jerked the covers off me. Then he pulled my nightgown up, so I was lying there naked. He ran his hands all over me. Breasts, private parts. I didn’t move. I played dead and wished I was. He shook me trying to get a response, I suppose. I was limp. I never opened my eyes. He stopped. I waited. Then abruptly he left and went back down the stairs. In seconds, Lisa came scampering up the stairs. She climbed into bed with me. I hugged her and cried.

The next exciting event in Lisa’ s life was to have puppies. It took me quite a while to find a male Weimaraner. But eventually I found one in a small town not too far from Fort William. The owner, a doctor, would breed to her for the pick of the litter. I waited for Lisa to come into heat, then she did, and I counted down the days until she would be fertile. She had a bloody discharge so I continuously followed her around the house with a rag to wipe the floors clean. When the discharge ran clear, it was time to mate her. Father would drive us: Lisa, me, Jeffrey and Tracy.   The whole reason we were talking this trip was embarrassing. To breed my dog. I was particularly embarrassed around Father. But I hoped that because it had been a long while since he had touched me and with my sister and brother present, I was safe. We bundled into the car and drove away toward the town. In no time we found the doctor’s place, a farm. We met the doctor and his dog, which I evaluated. He was a nice enough dog, no serious faults, he just wasn’t as refined as Lisa. He would do. We turned Lisa loose in a small pen in the barn and put the male dog in with her. Lisa wagged her tail. I gave her a pat then I went outside. It was too embarrassing to watch. My father and the doctor stayed inside with the dogs. After a long while Father and the doctor emerged from the barn.

            “You can go get your dog, Jackie,” said Father. I collected her and we all got back in the car for the ride home. It was already getting dark. I sat in the front seat, right up against the door, as far from Father as I could get. Jeffrey, Tracy and Lisa were in the back seat. I sat with my head down, watching the speedometer. We were going sixty miles an hour. Then the needle began to drop. We were slowing down. Fifty, forty…the speedometer was still dropping. I couldn’t take my eyes from it. Thirty…My stomach sank along with it. My little black cloud appeared directly overhead and shot out thunderbolts. Then Father reached over and took me by the nape of my neck and pulled me in close to him. I was terrified. My God! The kids were in the back seat! Then he plunged his hand down the front of my sweater and thrust his hand under my bra to my breasts. Meanwhile the speedometer needle descended. Then, the sound of gravel under the tires. We were pulling over onto the shoulder. Lightning cracked. Rain poured over me. Thunder sounded. The needle read zero. The car stopped. Then I said in a low, angry voice: “Get your hands off me! I will scream if you do not take your hands away from me.” His hand stopped moving. Then slowly, it withdrew from my sweater.

            “Tracy!” I called. “Wake up. You can ride in the front seat and let me ride in the back.” I pushed the door open and stepped outside. I opened the backseat door and got sleepy Tracy out. I put him in the front seat. As a boy, I thought he would be safe there, unlike me or Jeffrey. I had no knowledge of homosexuality so I could not imagine that Father would do anything to him. He was a boy, after all. I got in the back seat next to Jeffrey who was asleep. I slammed the door shut. The car started up and drove on, taking us back home. I stayed as I was. I did not adjust my bra. It was completely off my breasts, above them, scrunched up against my neck. I was in a daze, numb, almost paralyzed under the black cloud. I saw from above a grey car and children, a dog and a man moving along a black highway.

            We parked in front of the house under the long shadow of the Manitoba Maple. I dashed out and ran down the sidewalk to the kitchen door. Lisa was right behind me. I also had to pee. I crossed my arms up high, over my breasts and held them. The kitchen was bright with light. TV sounds and laughter emanated from the dark living room. A crowd of people was there, sitting around the television, Auntie Dell among them. I heard my name called but I didn’t answer. I threaded my way through the people in the living room and dashed up the stairs, still clutching my breasts, still in my winter coat.

“Jackie, Jaaaakie, Jaaaakie.” I ran.

Now that puppies were coming, there was lots to do to prepare. First, Father made a big plywood box, with foot-high sides. I lined it with newspaper and added an old blanket. The whelping box. I started feeding Lisa an eggnog once a day. She always was a picky eater and I worried about getting weight on her.

 I’d handle the naming and the registration of the puppies, so I wanted to come up with a kennel name that could be used in conjunction with a puppy’s particular name. What I finally came up with was: Silversmoke Kennels. I wasn’t totally pleased with it, it seemed slightly corny, but it was the best I could do.

The sixty-three days of pregnancy seemed to be taking forever to go by. If anything happened during the daytime Mother was under strict instructions from me to call the school and get me out of it so I could tend to the birthing of the puppies.

Finally, an announcement. Jackie Cryderman was to go to the principal’s office. I jumped up from my seat in high excitement. From the principal’s office I called Grampa to see if he could drive me out to the farm. He could and did. Lisa was sitting on the steps to the side door. She didn’t run to me but sat, ears at an anxious angle, wagging her tail. I ran from the car up to her. Then I saw it. A blind, silver and grey striped puppy was writhing on the steps. Lisa was baffled by it. It was so cold! Poor puppy. I picked it up and told Lisa to “Heel!” I led her into the house where Mother was in the warm kitchen. I held up the puppy.

“Lookit! She’s already had one!

I guided Lisa down the basement steps to the big whelping box. I put her inside it and encouraged her to lie down on the blanket. When she did, I set the puppy near her teats, hoping it would nurse. The puppy whined and pawed blindly at the air. I reached in and moved the pup so close it was touching Lisa’s belly. Then I waited. It was going to take this puppy some time to master nursing. Then Lisa began to whimper. She half stood and she pawed at the blanket, turned and lay down again. I rushed to check her vulva, if it had swollen more and was opening for another puppy to be born. I waited and watched. Then whoops! Another puppy. I picked it up and tore the rest of the birthing membrane away from it. I rubbed at it vigorously with a towel while the puppy whimpered and pawed the air.

This birthing process went on for a long time. By the time there were eight puppies, they’d gotten very vocal. They were hungry and Lisa couldn’t be still for them to nurse. It scared me. So I got a laundry basket and put some old towels in it. Then I mixed up Carnation evaporated milk with corn syrup, got an eye dropper and went to work feeding puppies. As I fed each one, I put it in the box. Lisa kept on having puppies: She was a lot like Mother. It was now late at night. I was exhausted.

At 2 a.m. Lisa had produced thirteen puppies. Twelve normal, one runt. None of them had nursed, they had only had my Carnation concoction. I had two laundry baskets filled puppies. I fed Lisa and she gulped her food. When she lay back down I figured it was time to introduce the puppies to their mother. Gently I picked up two puppies and set them down touching Lisa’s belly. Two little tiger-striped puppies. Weimaraner pups are always born with grey and darker grey stripes, which fade in a couple of weeks. One of the pups squirmed and accidently clawed at Lisa’s belly. Lisa snapped then growled at the pup. I stared in horror. Was she rejecting her pups? I began to cry. I was so tired and hungry; I hadn’t eaten all day. If she rejected them they would all die! I couldn’t feed thirteen puppies four times a day. I gazed at Lisa and the puppies while tears ran down my face. Lisa was curled up in a corner of the box, far from the mass of pups near the centre. It looked hopeless. I didn’t know what else to do. So I trudged upstairs to my parent’s bedroom. I had to be desperate to enter my father’s bedroom while he was in it. I stood by the bed for a minute or so.

“Father. Mother. Something is terribly wrong. Lisa has rejected her pups.”

Mother stirred, “What’s she doing, Jackie?” Her soft voice was crackly.

“She won’t nurse them!” This came out as a wail.

“But what’s she doing?”

“Uh. Just lying there sleeping.”

“Okay. Good. Jackie, what I suspect is, she’s not rejecting her puppies. She’s just exhausted. She’s been in labour all day and night. Let the poor thing rest, Jackie, and you’d better get some too.”

I looked stupidly around the darkened room. Mother and Father were just lumps under a white comforter. I was just a lump standing there. “Okay. Do you think she’ll be better after she’s rested?”

“We just have to wait and see,” said Mother. “You can’t do anything else.”

I must have rested. I can’t remember. But the next thing I do recall is kneeling by the whelping box, grinning, watching Lisa nurse her pups. But she didn’t have teats available for thirteen. I decided to supplement Lisa’s milk with the Carnation mixture. So I could keep tabs on who I’d already fed, I fed a pup then put it in a basket. They would need this four times a day at first. How could I do this and still go to school? If I fed before school, then at four o’clock, again at eight and the final at twelve I would only need help with one feeding and it would only be for about two weeks. After two weeks when their eyes were open, I’d supplement with kibble moistened in Carnation milk.

“Mother! I really need your help.”

“What?”

“I need you to feed the puppies, just once, during the day while I’m at school.”

“What time?”

“Oh, about 12 noon?”

“Sure. Show me what to do, and I’ll do it.”

 If we were a huggy family, I would have hugged her.

The next big event concerning the puppies was the cutting of their tails. I had a book on this. I read up on what to do and decided I could do it, thereby saving a big vet bill. I had Father’s hunting knife, which was heavy, the handle wrapped in leather, the blade shiny, sharp steel with brass mountings. I think my Uncle George had made it.

There was table downstairs and I decided to use it for the operation. I placed several layers of newspaper on the table. I got a saucer and filled it with iodine and just a splash of water. I put blankets in two laundry baskets and set one near the table, empty. I took the other one and put a lot of puppies in it and carried the puppies to the table. I picked up one puppy and immediately realized I’d need another person to hold the tail out straight while I cut. I rounded up Jeffrey, she was about nine and surely was up to the task. I showed her how to hold the tail out straight. I held the puppy by its back, counted the vertebrae by feel and found the slight depression between the sixth and seventh vertebrae.

“Ready, Jeffrey?”

“Yes.”

I placed the knife over that depression and quickly cut down. The puppy squealed, then stopped. I lifted it up and dipped its stump of a tail in the iodine mixture. Another squeal. I had to fight squeamishness. I felt bad, hurting them, but they had to have docked tails.

“Are you okay, Jeffrey?”

“I’m okay.” And she nodded her pretty blonde head, navy blue eyes big. Jeffrey Jane had thick, long black eyelashes, which emphasized her eyes.

Cutting off dewclaws was optional, so I opted not to cut them off. Less cutting to do.

I put the docked puppy in the empty basket and asked Jeffrey to pick up the next one. I did three puppies, then picked up the fourth. I laid it belly-down on the newspaper. Jeffrey took hold of the tail and pulled it out straight. I counted down the vertebrae, positioned the knife, then pushed down hard. There was a sickening crunch. The puppy yelped. What was wrong? I pushed the knife again and again met resistance. Then I realized that I was cutting through vertebrae. A chill of horror went through me. I hesitated. Thought about it. If I pull back now, there will be a partial incision. If I keep going, then what? Not a good option. I felt weak and dizzy. The puppy squirmed its fat little body under my hand. Nothing to do but to push through and completely sever the tail. I pushed. The puppy squealed, I dipped it in iodine and got another squeal. I raised it up and inspected where I’d cut. It didn’t look too bad. There was nothing to do but to carry on. We cut tails until all thirteen were done. Left behind was this pitiful little pile of silver puppy dog tails. I wanted to cry looking at it. But the puppies only squealed twice, then they stayed quiet, so I hoped this meant they weren’t in too much pain. We put the puppies back with Lisa and began the feeding process. Later, when I handed the hunting knife back to Father, he actually said, “Good job.”  Then he said, “You’re brave, Jackie. I couldn’t have done what you just did.” He couldn’t? I told Jeffrey she was brave too. I didn’t feel brave. I was all shaky and trembly for a couple of hours, then I was okay. All the puppy tails healed up well.

Next on the Silversmoke Kennels agenda: Advertising, marketing, public relations. I had to figure a way to sell these puppies. Something inexpensive.  I couldn’t afford a nice big ad in say, Dog World. Then somehow I found out about rural newspapers published from east to west. I could reach the entire country using these small newspapers. Sitting down at an ancient Royal typewriter that I found in the basement, I prepared a classified ad and placed it in papers in Newfoundland, Nova Scotia, New Brunswick, Ontario, Manitoba, Saskatchewan, Alberta, British Columbia and the Yukon. I left out Quebec because I couldn’t speak French. This took care of advertising and marketing.

            Meanwhile, the puppies had really grown. They now easily scaled their whelping box and escaped to the wider world of the basement and soon, at a thunderous gallop, running upstairs. They joyously exploded into the kitchen expecting pets and hugs. Which they got. “Oh! Puppies! Puppies!” We all cried out on hearing the thunder, then scooping up the nearest warm body, hugging it and rocking it.

            Father made a chicken-wire extension of the sides of the whelping box, framed in 1” x 2” wood. This contained the puppies for a while but then one day we heard the great thunder of them coming up the basement steps again. The puppies had escaped! We kids were delighted.

Daily I began taking Lisa outside for exercise. All the puppies joined us and Lisa, taking off, led her pups to the back on the property. We—me, Jeffrey, Tracy, Jennifer and Della—gave chase. I was terrified the puppies would get lost. We ran past the cleared section of our property alongside a shallow ditch, dry-bottomed now. The trees thickened around us. We went down a wooded hill, then up the other side, which opened onto a barbwire fenced meadow. The pups and Lisa were mid-meadow, trotting now, getting tuckered. We ducked under the barbwire and entered the meadow, calling softly to the puppies, not noticing the bull in one corner. I called Lisa. To my surprise, she came and the pups followed. But the bull heard me calling and he snorted, lowered his head and charged.

“C’mon puppies, c’mon,” we screamed and the little dogs complied. They broke from a trot to a hard gallop, silver ears flying, and reached us before the bull. We scooped them up, made for the fence and scrambled through the barbwire with only a few scratches. We led them all home.

Once we learned Lisa would always bring the puppies back, we let her run out with them every day.

One day, though, it didn’t work. Lisa came home, minus three puppies.  

I panicked. One of them, the one I considered the pick of the litter, had already been sold to a man in an Ontario town famous for uranium mining, for four hundred dollars, the most expensive of all the pups. I was charging two hundred and fifty for the others. The puppy’s nickname was “Scarlett,” because I had marked her head with deep red lipstick to quickly differentiate her from the pack. This way I could be sure I was monitoring the progress of the right puppy—they changed so quickly.

When the pups didn’t come home after two days I called the newspaper, unaware I might be getting some public relations. I told them that a rare breed of dog was lost, puppies from the only Weimaraner litter born in Northwestern Ontario. I also told them I was thirteen years old and that I was the breeder and trainer of these dogs. One of my puppy owners, a lady from Port Arthur, had bought a male pup and wanted to show with me. I told her of the lost puppies. She immediately took a picture of her pup and took it to the newspaper. They published the article along with the pup’s picture and right away we got a call. Scarlett and the other two puppies were in a barn not far from us. The people had been feeding them. I got a ride with someone and went to the puppies. Oh! I was so happy to see them! They ran to me, wagging their little tails, squirming all over me, licking my hands and face. They knew me! I gave the people a reward, I forget how much, and took the puppies home. It was time to ship Scarlett to her new home.

We did this in a wooden crate UncaBill built. It was big, the puppy could walk around in it. This was necessary because the pups were shipped by train and it took a couple of days or so to get them to their destinations. I wrote out feeding instructions and taped them to the top of the crate, along with cans of Carnation milk and dog kibble. To ship meant getting up early in the morning, before first light, and getting the puppy to the train station, the CPR, in Fort William. The train men, in dark blue suits and peaked hats, received the puppy. They were delighted a puppy was going to be travelling with them. Of course they would feed her. They asked if they could take the puppy out of the crate and play with her. Great! “Yes,” I said. “Please do.” So off went Scarlett. A few days later I got a long distance phone call. She’d arrived safely. They just loved her.

 Breeding dogs is a very happy pastime. This is something I learned after I sallied forth into this great venture. Puppies are by nature happy creatures, and people getting a puppy are in very good moods, too, so the whole experience is one of joy. I am so happy I had Lisa, who afforded me this joy.

Another puppy entered the picture around this time. UncaBill bought a Springer Spaniel pup from a breeder in Winnipeg. I remember getting up early and going to the train station in the dark with UncaBill. UncaBill was trying to replace Rusty, but he bought the wrong breed. He should have consulted with me: I had researched it. Rusty was an English Cocker Spaniel, a rather rare breed in North America. They are calmer dogs than hyper Springers.

So there was the crate—we had shipped our crate to the breeder—and there was the puppy. His registered name was “Kelso of Something Something,’ so we called him “Kelly.” He was liver and white, with freckles across his nose. He wagged his whole body greeting us. UncaBill held him gently in his huge hands, a big grin on his face. The puppy wriggled and licked his hands. Then he handed him to me. Aww. So cute and so soft. He gazed up at me with big brown eyes. We thanked the train men and took Kelly to 544.

When Kelly was six months old, the dog show was on. Humm. Maybe Kelly could show, he had the papers. So I trained him to set up. He was a natural. He held the pose and wagged his tail. He was perky!

Jeffrey and I went to the show with Kelly and Lisa. Jeffrey was going to show Kelly. Lisa did her usual droop around the ring. She did get a ribbon: She was the only dog in the class. Then Jeffrey entered the ring with Kelly. Did he trot! Was he perky! There were several other dogs in the puppy class and Kelly won. I jumped and yelled. Then he had to show back against the winners of the other age and gender groups in the Best of Breed class. He was up against seasoned adult dogs and professional handlers. Jeffrey showed Kelly, cool and confident. Then the judge asked them to line up and soon the judge was pointing at them and he said “One!” Kelly had beat the adults. Next was the Group class. Kelly trotted around the ring with an Irish and English Setter, an American Cocker, a black Labrador, a German Shorthaired Pointer, an English Pointer and several others. I held my breath watching them. Kelly was holding his own; trotting like a pro, head up, tail wagging. Jeffrey showed like she did it every day: No one could tell this was Kelly’s debut show. The judge had the dogs line up head to tail. Again, Kelly posed well. The judge inspected them all then went to the center of the ring and started pointing: “One! the German Shorthaired Pointer. Two! The Labrador. Three! The Springer Spaniel! I screamed in delight. Jeffrey trotted him around in a victory lap then ran out to me brandishing a big pink and white satin rosette ribbon.

“Great handling, Jeff! Wonderful!” Then I petted Kelly who was leaping around us in excitement like a perky champion. Too bad UncaBill hadn’t come to the show. But Kelly turned out to be an obnoxious dog. UncaBill never disciplined him. Kelly jumped all over people. If you sat down he dropped a ball in your lap—a wet, slimy ball and he wouldn’t leave you alone until you threw the ball. Which he immediately fetched and dropped back in your lap. Your only recourse was to leave the room.

I was eleven when the idea of making a movie struck me. All we needed was the use of UncaBill’s movie camera. It would be something more interesting than water skier after water skier. Confident he would approve of this project; I wrote a screenplay. It was a spoof of cowboy movies. All of us children would act in it: Tracy would be the Good Guy in a white hat, Roy the Bad Guy. Jeffrey and I were to be dance hall girls. I thought it was hilarious: Especially when the Good Guy swaggers up to the bar and orders “Milk!” We rehearsed. Jeffrey and I sashayed around, hands on hips, wriggling our behinds. We laughed a lot as we rehearsed. Then UncaBill refused to let us use the camera. Then he refused to film it himself. We were crushed. So no Academy Award-winning film. But that wasn’t the end of my movie career. It would kick in much later.

Jane is here. She stopped using “Jeffrey” as her name and began to use her middle name, “Jane” many years ago. She took some awful razzing about having a boy’s name. “Jane” after our great-grandmother, the nurse. It really suits her.

            She is going through a year’s worth of my paperwork to prepare for taxes. Once she has everything together, she will mail it all to Jennifer in Calgary and Jennifer will do my taxes, both Canadian and American. What wonderful sisters! Now that all my remaining siblings are here on Planet Earth, I can’t imagine life without each and every one of them. They are so smart and funny. A big family can be a wonderful thing. Or, maybe not so.

One of the students in my Home Room class was Brent. Brent was the one who whispered I needed a bra. We were friends. He couldn’t possibly be interested in me as a girlfriend: I was a little chubby. No one has a fat girlfriend.

            Then in P.E., a marvel. They began to teach us how to dance: Box waltz, polka, rhumba, even a modest jive. (No girls being slung around so you could see their panties.) At first, we learned the steps and practised solo. The music played, I danced around, it was glorious. Then: Panic. The girls were told to stand in the middle of the gym. Next, a boy was to walk up and ask her to dance. Girls were being asked to the left and right of me. I began to blush. What if no one asked me to dance? How humiliating. I snuck a glance at Miss Loney. She was staring at me with a smirk on her face. Oh, how she’d love it—if no one asked me to dance. I stood and prayed. Then I was the last girl. I checked Miss Loney. She was laughing. My blush deepened. Then—ta dah—Brent! He walked right up to me, smiled and said, “Dance?” I couldn’t speak I was so choked up with gratitude. Not only had I been asked to dance, it was by the cutest boy in the room. I nodded and lifted my arms. He put his hand on my waist, took my other hand in his and swung me into a waltz. I looked up at him and grinned. He looked down at me and winked, then pulled me in closer and picked up the tempo. He could really waltz! Miss Loney was staring, stone-faced. I wanted to stick my tongue out at her, but I refrained.

            From then on, during the whole time dancing was taught, Brent was my partner.